Grievances
by Churro-Dragon
Summary: In 1941, British troops help train Chinese soldiers to fight against Japan. China encounters England for the first time in years, and all things in consideration, it's hard to hold tightly to an old grudge when you're busy with new ones in the making.
England sends word of his arrival weeks in advance, in the form of a typed letter that conveys the basic facts about the army and some formal statements about governmental alliances. You spend the days leading up to his arrival rehearsing what you'll say to him, how to perfectly package the pain he has caused you into sharpened words to bring him and his Empire to their knees once again, begging for forgiveness that you will not confer.

When he does finally arrive however, dressed in his ill-fitting wool uniform, with a small collection of soldiers, your carefully planned words crumble away. Gaunt and bruised, eyes weary and guarded from sleepless nights spent fending off enemies on his own shores, he can't be any more different than the proud, self-possessed gentleman subjugator you remember him as.

"You look pathetic." Is all you can say, not even maliciously; it's simply a truthful observation, and you've always been good at being blunt.

England gives a faint, tired smile. "It certainly has been a….trying time for everyone."

There he goes again, with his infuriating habit of casually understating the circumstances. Whatever he's implying about the troubles of his own faraway land, though, you're sure that your grievances are more severe, as they always have been.

"Thank you for the aid." You give your curt, rehearsed response in English. "The support of Great Britain is much appreciated at this time by the Republic." Republic, not dynasty. You are used to rotations of power, but the changes from the past century-and-a-half have come so quickly that you're not even sure if this fragile new government will last.

He frowns, and you catch a glint of the old conquerer, still crouching under all the layers of weariness. The lion never truly goes away, you think, and keep your distance from him. He does the same. You don't have the luxury to rehash old betrayals, both of the political and familial type, not while there's a new generation preparing for a completely different war. Here, the British troops do what they can to train the Chinese soldiers in the short window of time that they're here, flying in sorely-needed supplies and weaponry as well. It's not enough, but, well, when has there ever been enough.

Encounters are inevitable however, and several days later he manages to find you at breakfast time, having a solitary bite to eat away from the rest of the soldiers.

"Good morning," he says in a stilted voice, and you nod back at him, chewing on your rations.

"Good morning yourself," you say once you've managed to stomach the rest of your food. After all, as unpleasant as encounters are, you suppose it is better than complete avoidance. You point to the space on the bench next to you. "Are you going to have a seat? It's awkward to do this with you just standing there, you know."

England seems to relax a bit more, although you can't help but notice that when he sits down he is careful to leave plenty of space between the two of you. He eats in silence for a while before sighing and finally deciding to speak.

"Have you heard anything from Li Xiao?" is what he asks,"I mean, ever since–"

"Since you failed to give him proper defense against Japan." You answer for him, a bit too quickly, but you figure there's no use in indulging in pointless small talk anyway. "No, I have not. I have been much too busy trying to hold myself together. Oh, don't worry, I won't hold it againstyou," you say in a tone indicating that yes, you will indeed do exactly that. "After all, you have children all over the globe that I'm sure you'reextremely fond of. It's not so much of a loss for you, isn't it?"

"I had no control over that situation." England grits his teeth. "In case you haven't noticed I've barely been able to keep from being invaded myself. The only reason I can afford to help you is because I've had to get aid myself, from America of all people. Speaking of which, he'd better hurry up and join the damn war himself, then maybe we'll have a hope of bringing everything to an end. The idiot thinks he's untouchable, but not all of us have the luxury of being flanked by two oceans."

 _Untouchable_.

You thought you were, once, before the past hundred years had become a hellhole of betrayals and newly inflicted injuries. And even before then, at the height of your power, the fear of invasion and war had always loomed at the edges. No one is untouchable, especially now that the world has seems to grow smaller and more crowded with each passing year, even England–the breadth of his great empire, now still not enough to ensure security on his own land. As for America, you can vaguely remember him, from the end of the Boxer rebellion boasting and declaring the importance of free trade, open doors, all swagger and bluster at all times, acting like he deserved to be loved by the world and fortune itself by sheer virtue of his existence.

"Well," you laugh a little, trying to sound casual, holding back the feeling of nauseousness that comes every time you stop to consider the pace at which time seems to be moving. "It's like you used to always say. 'Times are changing.'"

You thought there'd be more of a thrill, getting to turn his words back on him, but England frowns and doesn't meet your eye, focusing instead on nudging a suspicious stain on the ground.

"Yes," he says quietly, without looking up. "I suppose that's right."

He tries to look calm, maintain that understated, deadpan expression and attitude he always tries to cultivate, but you can see his fingers gripping the edges of the bench tightly, fingernails digging into the cheap wood, and there's no fooling anyone, human or nation, that he is doing even remotely fine. You think back to the few times you'd spent away from your house, from your people, the uncertainty that follows the more distance you put between where you are, and who you are. Here, England is less of a nation, less a force of an empire, barely more than another tired, scrawny soldier miles from home fighting another war with an uncertain outcome.

"I'm–um," he starts to speak, then hesitates, then resumes again. "I'm sorry about Li Xiao," he says, and you note he says Li Xiao, not Hong Kong, not the territory itself. "He's–he's a good kid, he really is. He's grown up nicely. I'm sure he'll be fine." It doesn't quite feel like a stab in the gut, to know that you haven't been able to watch him grow up, haven't been able to see him through the strange process that is a nation's childhood. For one, you've actually survived the stab in the gut, and worse, and like all wounds that have healed and scarred over, you've never quite forgotten. But you have become accustomed to the dull ache that occasionally resurfaces.

It's not that you don't want justice, or retribution or whatever it's called, but the present hurts enough already, and you are exhausted, too aware of the sheer amount of energy it would take to dredge out an itemized account of years of pain and humiliation from the past century.

"Thanks, I guess." You try to smile, although it probably comes out as more of a grimace. "I'm still angry with you, you know. But I can't deal with this right now."

England attempts to return the smile, and you want to continue and explain that this is not forgiveness, the hurt that he's inflicted on you and your family isn't magically gone with the passage of time just because you have more, recent wounds to tend to, and you hope he understands that.

"So," England says slowly–always so careful with his words around you these days. "It looks like I'm leaving for home tomorrow. Trouble on the home front, and all that."

You nod in understanding. He's going back to join his people, where every nation belongs, truly, and despite yourself you're a little relieved for him.

Maybe there will be time for a proper reckoning of wrongs after the war is over, not just for England but for everyone, for all the proud nations who thought your land was theirs to claim– _spheres of influence,_ like anyone believed it was anything less than that–and all is put to justice. After all, at this point, if only to get through the days, you convince yourself that things can and will be put right in the end, as if you yourself are completely blameless, even though that promise, that ideal, has been ever-evasive since wars were invented.

But until then, simply surviving is enough to ask for.


End file.
